and i ran back to that hollow again

This is going to be an interactive sort of blog post. I want you to click this link here, and push play. Minimize that window and just read the post to the music. Turn it down a little if it makes it hard to register the words, but if you do this you will better understand this entry. You'll be there too.

I have a riding lesson every Tuesday night. I come home from work, do some light, necessary, chores and then head out to Riding Right farm to tack up a Chestnut Mare named Mystery. I look forward to it all day.

And while I enjoy the challenges and small victories of the dressage saddle, it does push the night chores back at the farm well into dark. I get home around 8PM, and only have a few deep breaths of light left to get everything done. I go through my mental checklist, starting with rabbits and chickens down by the barns and then working back to the pasture to refill everyone's water stations. It takes around an hour now to go through the exhales of this place, the things that get it ready for bed. Come dark I am still watering tomato plants and dividing the hoofstock from their weeknight pastures to their weekday pastures (a job of grain bribes and general jim-trickery). It gets done. The work always gets done. I do it with gratitude.

Soaked through with sweat, in old muck boots, riding breeches, and a straw hat I must be quite the sight. A confused sort of agriculturist wearing Country Radio headgear and English riding pants admist a flock of sheep in the dark. My iPod runs a soundtrack as I do all this fuss. For night rounds it is always calming, usually the selected songs of Sam Beam, Wilco, or the Postal Service. Tonight it's Gregory Alan Isakov, and the Stable Song was playing. A song I have not listened too much, but it used to haunt my old truck summer nights last year. I would let it fill up that beater Ford and it gave me the uncanny ability to focus 100% on two things at the same time: my passions and the lyrics. When this happens you are one lucky bastard. You are praying without realizing it.

Fireflies had descended on the pasture. I stood there, entranced for a moment. The Blackfaces and Jasper all around me in the near-dark, silent. Just myself and swishing tails and lumbering bodies. In the grass, the sole two-footer, among all this whimsically insect-lit quadrapedia. It's meditation and enlightenment at the same time.

I stood there a while. I closed my eyes and listened to the music. Jasper's wet nose hit my shoulder and I reached to touch it, but kept my eyes closed. A smaller lamb let out a weak bleat and it opened my eyes. A farm lit all over by my one of my favorite things in the whole world: fireflies. I gasped.

When you are alone in a large place, chubby, scared, uncertain, and worried about what will get you through the next month—and yet find a way to open your eyes in a pasture and realize you don't want to be any other person in any other place in the whole world—your soul turns around three times and lies down.

this just in: girl grows sunflower

CAF videos!

Hey folks, just a quick PSA. Did you know I have a youtube channel where you can see videos harking all the way back to Idaho and Tennessee? I also post things there that don't always make the blog, you can subscribe to video feeds there and never miss a banjo tune or rooster crow.

Cold Antler Farm Videos.

roll call

10,000 Honey bees
12 Sheep
24 Meat Chickens
24 Laying Hens
14 Meat Rabbits
6 Bourbon Red turkeys
5 Raised beds of vegetables
3 Roosters
2 Tolouse Geese
2 Mallard Duck Hens
2 Siberian Huskies
6 Apple Trees
1 Border Collie
1 Bass pond
1 Large potato patch
1 Cart Pony

1 28-year-old woman

How about you?

backyard butchering workshop

Just a warning for any sensitive readers: This post goes into detail about the meat bird workshop I held this past weekend. If you don't care to read about the subject, just ignore it and wait for tomorrow's post. But for those of you interested in the how-to of eating your own chickens, read on. Instructions will be in full detail.

Friday night while Brett and I were finishing up work on the barn, I scrambled around chasing chickens in the yard. A triumphant moment later I walked over to him with a Cornish Rock in each hand, suspended by the legs. I held them up in the air at my eye level. "Which of these, you think? Both?" He gestured to the fatter, white bird on the right. I agreed, and set the left-handed bird free to scuttle off for bugs. He would need some more time to fatten up, back to his happy job of eating and chasing crickets in the grass. But the chosen bird… for him it was Solitary Confinement.

All chickens destined for the roasting pan have a 24-hour fast prior to their demise. The workshop bird went into a comfortable wire cage with fresh bedding and water. He was safe from sunlight and stress in the shelter of the coop. While he threw back water I came to terms with the fact that the next day I would be showing eight people how to kill and eviscerate him. This is a new thing for me.

I have now been raising chickens for half a decade, and eating my own meat birds for two seasons. I feel very confident about my reasons and my skills, and was excited to do the slow-motion magic trick of turning a live chicken into a perfect roasting bird just like you’d see at the grocery store. That moment when the headless bird goes from wet feathers to drumsticks and wings: people start to put together the "TA DA" notion that chicken the product is also chicken the animal. It sounds weird to have admit that understanding sets in, but it does. Even for me, who lived on a farm in three states — raised laying hens for years before I ever ate my own birds—to me this realization did not engrave into my cranium until that first squawking rooster turned into a perfect grocery-display ingredient. The process still surprises me.

I’m ridiculously careful now about bacteria, and my precautions are almost laughable (like always wearing rubber gloves, and Clorox wipes on doorknobs after I walk through a room I handled raw chicken in….), and between my Chicken Safety OCD and my trusty Dexter boning knife: I was looking forward to a full day spent with new friends. For the rare occasion my farm would be full of folks who understand why I do all this, and who want to learn how to do it too. It's a whole afternoon of conversation I can doggie-paddle in till I'm drunk on it: composting, fence testers, raised beds, pea varieties, chicken breeds, and wool carders come up as often as the Red Sox do in the office. For me, it's revelry.

By 10AM folks from Maryland, Connecticut, New York, and Maine were in the kitchen enjoying farm quiche, coffee, and friendly introductions. People who were just jpg avatars and comment names became faces and hugs. After everyone said their hellos I explained the certainty of electric fences and the dangers of letting a Siberian Husky outside, then we were ready to start.

We started near the brooder. (A proper beginning station if there ever was one.) Everyone’s chicks were waiting for them. As part of the workshop, every person who signed up got five meat birds (25 eventual pounds of healthy chicken meat!) for coming to learn the dirty work. We talked in detail about brooder care, heat lamp safety, supplements and signs of illness. Everyone got to pick up a chick and get a feel for the animals. Those tiny yellow fluffballs will be white giants in just 8 weeks, ready to meet their makers as well. You know, It still amazes me how efficient and cost-effective raising your own backyard meat birds is. I ordered those chicks for $2.50 a piece and with two dollars of feed each, time, and a little messy effort you can be the farmer, chef, and quality control officer all in one. I’m not sure you save tons of money, but you save some, and you get both the skills and understanding of the task. You get to realize that what’s chomping in your maw was the intentional work of your own hands. I won't set a price on that.

Throughout the workshop side conversations and stories were shared, everything was casual since all of us felt comfortable. Mike and Rachel from Maryland just seemed happy to be around people who didn’t think they were crazy for raising their own food, and Bridget explained her coop plans to them while Angela asked questions about the different classifications of harvested chicken (i.e. Cornish hen, fryer, roaster, etc). The whole mood was interested and kind. I was really happy with the group. These people were ready to get their hands dirty. More than one recipe was swapped.

After a lunch break of pulled pork, salad greens, and leftover quiche we headed outside for the big event. I had already put the big canning pot on the stove to hit the magic number (145 degrees) and prepared a folding table with the knives, sanitizer, a plastic sheet, and other tools. Soon as all was ready I headed to the coop for our bird.

I brought the chicken out by the legs (inversion calms them) and showed the workshoppers how I bind the feet. It's a large loop of baling twine cinched around both feet and then tightened off so no amount of thrashing can set him loose. Soon the bird was hanging from the tree branch (Thanks to Connecticut Mike, who so kindly broke it for my new backyard abattoir).

Using my trusty hedge clippers, the chicken’s head was quickly removed and the animal thrashed as it bled out. I use the hedge clippers because it is a foolproof and fast method. One quick snap and his neck was instantly broken and main artery sliced. Another quick snip and the head was gone. It took possibly 5 seconds and the only person to get bloody was me, being the closest in proximity and even then, only a few splattered drops. No one screamed or looked horrified. Diane commented on how un-bloody the whole event was. She was expecting a horror show and all she got was some wing action. This is good. The act of taking a life, chicken, rabbit, pig, or cow should not be gratuitous if done quickly and humanely.

We waited a few minutes and a few of the men headed inside to grab the large pot of heated water. I untied the bird from the tree branch and then dunked him into the 145-degree tank for one minute, holding him down from floating (I guess he wasn't a witch) with a stick. This is the perfect combination of temperature and time. When the wet chicken was removed by his glowing-yellow feet he was already shedding feathers. With gloved hands I started removing the breast feathers first, and they came off easily. Within a few moments he was nearly naked, starting to look like those rubber chickens from 1960's gag shops. Most onlookers were happily surprised at how fast this whole business was going. From beheading to near-featherless was just about 5 minutes.

We walked over to the table where I could get a bucket of colder water for cleaning the bird. I use a 5-gallon bucket of cold well water refilled every time it gets too red or dirty. It's easier to do a clean job of final feather removal, and keeps the meat and skin pristine. By this point rigor mortis has set in, but it will relax after a few hours in the fridge or at defrosting.

When the bird was plucked, it was time to show how to remove the feet. Showing them the perfect point in the joint in which to cut, I used the boning knife to easily snap them off. I also cut off any part of the neck left with clots or mess. What is left is almost pretty in that cookbook way. But the next task wasn't as pretty...

After removing the gland right above the chickens bum (untasty as all get out), it was time to remove the entrails. Next I removed the anus and any leftover feces, which was minimal, and washed the whole bird again carefully in the cold, fresh water. To do this right, it takes almost half an hour a bird without a plucking machine. Factory chickens come out about 6,000 an hour and several bleach and chlorine baths. I have no interest in eating bleach or pool supplies anymore.

I showed them how to cut the bird low, under the breast bone, and shallow enough to not puncture anything inside. This is your biggest safety concern. You do not want anything inside those intestines or gall bladder getting into yours. Trust me on this. There's a reason I Clorox doorknobs, folks.

When the rear of the chicken was opened, I did the big trick. You reach all the way into the cavity and using the eyeballs on your fingertips, remove the organs from the spine and pull out the guts in one big pile. Slow and steady, you don't want that magical green sack in there to burst. We looked through the gut pile, seeing the green grass still in the bird's crop. It must have been some of the hay it was resting on. It looked as fresh as it must have been before it was cut last summer on Nelson's farm.

When this final work was done, the bird was cleaned again, the cavity flushed with water, and then held up. A modest applause. I brought it inside to rest in ice water in my steel kitchen sink. While it chilled we sat on the grass chatting, laughing. It was as if we all just put in a fence or mucked the barn. It was as it should be.

The last step was sharing how I prepare the birds for the freezer. Once out of the water, it was towel dried with a clean, cotton, kitchen towel and then covered in a generous layer of plastic wrap. Once it was coated, I wrap the bird in freezer paper and secure it with freezer tape, and then place the whole thing in a Freezer gallon bag. It should hold in there for 6 months in this sarcophagus.

And that, dear readers, is how you get the job done.

If you think you want to give this a try at home, I found this great online tutorial!

The afternoon was mostly conversations and folks leaving with their little Jumbo Cornish Chicks in cardboard boxes. I was proud of them all, for coming, for supporting the farm, and for literally taking the plunge with me. I'd like to say we ended the day with a calm shaking of hands and thank yous, but instead Brett, Mike, and I raced around like idiots trying to catch ram lamb number nine so Brett could load the firecracker into the back of his Tacoma. It was his fair payment for the door he built, and his shoring up the barn with posts and beams. He was excited to have him, but I don't think he realized how hard it would be to collect.... Catch a 3-month-old ram lamb is like trying to catch a marble with chopsticks in a flushing toilet. We darted and dashed like idiots. Diane, a seasoned hand at this place, laughed kindly with Mike, who was not wearing lamb-scooping footwear. "You should wear your boots if you come here. You never know what you'll get suckered into..." Damn right!

Teamwork paid off and we caught the sucker. I carried him down to the gate and handed him over to Brett. We loaded him into the truck's wooden crate, gave him some Safeguard to deworm him, and set him up with a bed of hay and a bucket of water. We thought all was well until he nearly jumped five feet in the air and escaped it. Brett nailed a plywood cover to the top. It would be a hard situation to explain on the Northway if a copy pulled him over for a ram escape.

The night ended with hotdogs on the grill, a campfire, fiddle and banjo music, and smores. Not a bad day, folks. Not bad at all.

And just wait till you hear what we have planned for the fall Backyard Farming Workshop. Here's a hint: Jasper is going to be helping Brett log some farm timber!

photo from efowl.com.
And folks, don't freak out, everyone agreed to the waiver.

rose of bedlam farm

Just back from a visit to Bedlam Farm in Hebron, which was celebrating the opening of Maria's art gallery in the Pig Barn. It was a big time and Jon invited me to join him up in the field to watch his girl Rose work during the herding demonstration. Look at her go!

jasper's door

A few weeks ago this was a tree. It stood on Brett's land, near his log cabin, and it was a pine. But Brett cut it down, and using his portable mill, turned that fallen tree into planks and post. With some tools, hardware, and his time and effort: he created this door which he delivered and installed Friday. Come the first snowfall it will take me back in time. I traded it for a ram.

I think it's the prettiest thing I own. Thank you.

dutch doors and dirigibles

This morning when I was outside letting the chickens out (and watching Gibson stalk and chase them into the ferns) I heard what I thought was the release of a shotgun far away. It puzzled me. Turkey season was over, wasn't it? What other need for a shotgun around here until fall gamebirds open up? I shrugged it off as target practice down the valley, and was about to go back inside when I heard it again. I knew exactly what it was this time: a hot air balloon taking off a mile away.

This was not a sound I would sensory-recognize any time before this past Friday night. Brett (my lumberjack friend from the Adirondacks) and I went down town to the Cambridge Balloon Festival to watch some of the giant dirigibles take off. We got to stand 20 feet from those wicker baskets and watch the flames shoot right up into the maws of those whales. They took off and hovered around Washington County like something unworldly. Like a slow, happy, alien attack when all the aliens wanted to do was float down and deliver Labradoodles and cupcakes. We watched the sky like ten-year-olds.

Both of us were pretty tired. We (read: he) build a dutch door on the barn for Jasper and shore up the beams inside. The barn here isn't exactly "stable" but it's getting there. All summer small weekend work periods like this of pouring concrete foundations and setting posts and beam supports in the loft helped keep the barn from collapsing. As of yesterday's effort, well, I think we got a few more years out of her. The next project is to build a stall inside for winter housing.

So when I realized that sound I was hearing from a chicken coop was that same burst of flame and hot air, just far away, I yelled to Gibson "TRUCK UP! TRUCK!" and we bolted for the Dodge, barely remembering to run inside for my camera. We peeled out and headed down the mountain to the lower fields and farms where I had watched these giants descend yesterday morning. Brett and I were heading to Stewart's for coffee and workshop-supplies when we drove by a few balloons landing right at the base of my mountain. The same place I let raccoons out of their traps and watch deer run away from my truck into skylined silhouettes. Yesterday, there was a 5-story balloon.

And so my little black dog and I drove south at 6:30 AM to see if once again the balloon was replacing does and convicts. I expected to see it after any switchturn on the road, a huge rainbow blob just past the trees, but it was no where to be found. Was I going crazy? I decided to get out of the truck and walk up the hill, trespassing, but not worried. There's something about looking for giant multi-colored aircraft that makes property lines seem less important. And just at the crest of the hill I saw it, not thirty yards away and a hundred feet up was the beast I heard from the farm. I stood in the tall grass and watched it fly off.

Who else is up at 6AM on a Sunday morning but whimsical air-ship pilots and farmers? A few, I suppose but not many. An odd pairing—and one not a lot of people would assume make sense side by side—but I think we suit each other just fine.

Cambridge Balloon Festival is in Town!

Come to the Backyard Farming Fall Workshop!

Come to Cold Antler Farm this Fall for a Backyard Farming Workshop! It'll be held mid-October, Sunday the 16th, at the peak of Hudson Valley foliage, and should make for an amazing weekend of farming, fall leaves, and local sight-seeing. I'm announcing it early so folks who want to make reservations up here can (all hotels and B&Bs sell out by late summer). This workshop will not focus on any one thing in great detail, but cover what can be done in small spaces with backyard livestock, gardens, rain water collecting, canning (we'll make pasta sauce or jam and send you home with some!), and many other topics for home-food production. Everyone who comes will get a copy of Carleen Madigan's Backyard Homestead, and have time to enjoy the farm's food, music, and animals. We might just butcher a turkey and drink some home brewed Black Dog Stout, too!

Please email me if you would like details to attend.
Sign up soon! Limited to 15 people!

how to roast the perfect chicken

If there's one kitchen trick you should learn; it's how to roast a chicken. It's such a satisfying, savory, home-warming skill and the birds you roast can make up 3-6 meals spread out over just a couple dollars in flesh, potatoes, and carrots. Here's the way I do it: it's easy, inexpensive, and it always turns out wonderful. Prep time is just minutes, and you only need one pan, a bowl, and a knife to cut veggies with. Follow these directions and I promise you'll want to roast a bird every chance you get. I use an adaptation from the River Cottage Meat Book with brining options taught to me by Cooks Illustrated.

You'll need:

To Roast:
One small roasting chicken (3-5 pounds)
Olive oil (or warmed butter)
Rosemary, garlic, and sage (or commercial chicken meat rub)
Piece of tin foil
Roasting pan
Meat thermometer
3-4 medium potatoes
4-6 carrots

For Brining(Optional:)
Plastic gallon freezer bag
Salt
Sugar
rosemary sprig
Bay leaves

Preheat your oven to 420 degrees. I know that seems high, but I'll explain later.

If you bought the chicken from the store, or if it was recently frozen, brining is the way to ensure your chicken roasts moist and savory, instead of stringy and dry. Take you whole bird and place it in a large freezer Ziploc bag (or saucepan if the bird is large) with about a gallon of water, 2/3 a cup salt, 3/4th a cup sugar, a sprig of rosemary and a few bay leaves. Let it set in the fridge for 2-4 hours (flipping it on its opposite side every hour or so). When you're ready to cook it, it'll be primed.

Take your fresh (or defrosted in the fridge) chicken and rinse it in cold water. I rinse out the cavity, under the wings, everything and then give it a few good shakes in the sink before I set it down into a large bowl. Set it aside and take out your roasting pan (I use a glass Pyrex pan) and cut up chunks of carrots and potatoes no larger than your thumb and make sure they coat the bottom of your roasting pan. (Besides cooking in the birds juices and fats, they'll act as a roasting rack, letting air under your bird and helping it cook thoroughly.) I always brush a light coating of olive oil and chicken rub spices over my veggies as well, but you don't have to. Set it aside and go back to your bird-in-bowl.

Take either room-temperature salted butter or olive oil and rub the entire bird over with the fat. When the meat is coated in one of these, take a knife and with the bird belly up, try to get your fingers right under the breast skin of the bird, sliding butter or oil into it, right over the breast itself. If the idea of an inner-skin massage makes you want to gag-then just use a knife and slide some cuts into the breast skin to allow air and steam to get between that skin and the muscles. (Trust me, it's worth it.) Last, take either crushed herbs (finely chopped garlic, sage, coarse salt, and rosemary) or a commercial chicken meat rub, and coat your bird entirely in this wonderful mix. If you want, tie the back drumsticks together with some butcher string (at your kitchen store), and then place it on top of your cut veggies. Now, open that oven door, baby.

Slide your herb-rubbed chicken into the oven at 420. This is the method of a flash of heat followed by a slower roast. Let it crackle and pop in there for 20-30 minutes and then lower the heat to 350 and cover the bird with a shield of tin foil lightly placed over it to stop the skin from scorching, but allowing it to get a little crispy. I then let the bird roast at least an hour, taking it out when the bird is a nice brown color to check temperature and other signs of "doneness". If your meat thermometer reads 170 degrees in the thickest part of the breast, you should be fine. Stab the birds skin to check that the juices run clear (not milky or red) and if you wiggle the legs they should be almost ready to snap right off in your hand. If your bird seems to have a lower temperature, just pop it back in for twenty minutes and try again later

If all the signs are good, let the bird sit for 20 minutes (the meat will keep cooking as it cools on your stove stop) then serve your white meat with a side of savory carrots and taters! Enjoy! And hopefully some of you readers out there can share some gravy and chicken stock recipes for what to do next!

homebrood!!!

I walked into the barn tonight to check on the Palomino doe's kits (looks like seven: four black and three spotted) and was almost shocked out of my Muckboots by the unmistakable chorusing of chicks! peeeep peep peep beepbeep chirp chirrrrp chick birp click chirp cheep cheeep!

"I knew it!" I exclaimed in the barn, jumping in the air like I just won the lottery, sounding as vindicated as a crow on corn. "I just KNEW IT!"

For weeks I had been noticing less and less eggs around the barn, the Ameraucanas and Pumpkins weren't anywhere to be found. With the daylight hours just right and those hens in a safe big barn, I just knew that somewhere there was a broody hen sitting on a pile of eggs. I just didn't expect it to be ten feet in the air...

These six home-brewed chickens were found in the hayloft of the old barn. After a few minutes of pouring flashlight streams under rabbit cages and moving feed containers I realized all that chirping was coming from above. A Pumpkin Hulsey hen had made her nest right below the loft's front window. When I climbed that rickety ladder and saw six little poofballs running around, I scooped them up and put them in the egg basket. There was no water, no feed, and a ten foot fall to freedom for these little guys. What was their mother thinking? So I brought them indoors and let them join the 57 meat birds and 2-week old laying hen chicks in the now very-cramped brooder. But a tightly packed, warm, food-and-water stocked brooder bet the roomier outdoors tonight. A cold burst is swiping through Veryork, and they are even calling for frost in the northern mountains....These little guys didn't stand a chance outdoors unless their mama could wrangle them back to the nest. Not trusting her judgement, I took a few more of the eggs she was resting on and brought them into the brooder as well. Maybe some would hatch right here in the farmhouse.

The new loft residents are a mix of Pumpkin Hulsey and either Light Brahma or Ameraucana. These are the sons and daughters of Winthrop and Upset, and I hope a few make it right to the roaster or laying stage. I'm pretty stoked to know the bird population can find a way to sustain itself. Let's hear it for those fine people at Greenfire Farms, raising heritage birds who know how to get the job done right!

What a wonderful surprise. What a damn happy thing. And what a fine irony that right before I went outside to do my night chores I popped a chicken for the oven for dinner! One life taken, and six more welcomed in its place. You just don't get that kind of awestruck grace every day.

Here's to new life. This place is lousy with it!

come in, sit down

Every once in a while I like to do a roll call. If you would be so kind as to comment and introduce yourself to the comunity here, we can all catch up with one another. Tell me about your own farm, or future farm, or your city apartment and lack of a farm because you just like reading about this mess. Say where you're from, and what your own goals are.

If you don't mind, please let me know what it is you'd be interested to hear more about? More recipes? Essays? It helps me produce the content you're interested in. It also helps other readers out there realize they aren't crazy for wanting a Shire horse or Swedish Flower Hens in 2011. And you never know, perhaps someone will read through these and realize there's another urban homesteader right in their neighbrohood, or that your goat farm is literally down the road. I hope you'll all chime in. I'll start:

Hi, I'm Jenna from Jackson, NY. I'm in my late twenties, single, and spend my days as a web designer/author/blogger/shepherd. I have a little sheep farm here with my border colllie, chickens, geese, rabbits, turkeys, bees, and a cart pony in training. I'm an average gardener and just planted 85 potatoes. Some day I want to grow up and be a writing farmer for a living. I want this so much it hurts.

happy feet

this just in!

My little Palomino doe just kindled the first kits of 2011!

let's waltz, darling

Here's my version of Down in the Willow Gardens, our first Waltz of Banjo Equinox. Feel free to post (or repost) your videos here. Has everyone stayed with it? Has anyone up and quit? For those faithful players out there, have you had a chance yet to play near your gardens after a long day, or with friends at a campfire? I played some fiddle this past weekend at a campfire and let me tell you, it wasn't pretty. I'm out of practice and needing rosin, but I could still saw out an Irish Reel and it made a few hands clap. That's reason enough to order new rosin. These instruments come and go in waves of passion, I know. BUt I hope some of you have a steady marriage started with your drum pots. Let's hear some updates and some 3/4 time!

mushroomin' the ozarks

Via Tara on CAf's Facebook page

workshops!

I have been getting emails about workshops, and when they are coming up. I have a Meat Bird Workshop This Saturday, June 4th, and a Sheep 101 workshop Sunday, June 19th. Meat Rabbits is in August, and I am considering a general Backyard Farming for Beginners Workshop for late July, and again in August and Sept. The Backyard Farming workshop will be an overview of growing food in small spaces and cover a basic overview of everything from beekeeping to butchering rabbits. If you're interested, let me know?

And another reader email brought up a suggestion I thought I would share. If you would like to come to a workshop at some point, but not sure when, but would like to pay a fixed tuition rate now to be used any time in the next three years? You can do that as well. Just email me for the details. Some folks like knowing they have paid up front and when the timing is right they'll just buy that plane, train, or bus ticket to Cold Antler.

an equestrian giveaway

I never intended to get so involved with horses, but I can't say I'm unhappy with the turn out. Last night I caught a sunset glimpse of my shadow on the pasture hillside. It was me all right, in a straw cowboy hat and standing next to this gray ghost was the shadow of my work horse, Jasper. Our silhouettes on the ground looked like rubber stamps of the wild west. Outlines of a time and place neither of us knew. We were both born and raised in the Northeast. Both of us started in Pennsylvania and ended up on a farm in New York. But in that waning light we looked like something as tough as rawhide, and I had to laugh out loud at the puppet show. I was a Hobbit, and Jasper was a pony. A barefoot farm girl and her pint-sized steed. We had been just working on the hill, weaving through the hillside and trees on a lead line, stopping and starting. Soon as I have the cash set aside I'll order him a proper harness and then I'll get him dressed in that and do the exact same thing. Eventually we'll start pulling light drags, and then I'll start ground driving from behind. It's a process, and while he might not need this slow training, I do. A first time driver and her first working cart pony...I'm taking it slow.

But last night, hoo. Last night I was at my weekly English riding lesson and I felt like I was trotting on air. After months of tense shoulders, fear of falling, and general stiffness I am starting to ride proper. Last night was my first lesson totally off the lunge line in a long time. Hollie had faith in my abilities, and for the first time, so did I. I felt so comfortable asking for that trot from my mount, taking her around the who arena. Working on my corners, my 20-meter circles, my seat, my hands and elbows. For a woman who spends so much of her time being coarse this is pure grace. The day before I was sweating bullets in the garden and a night later I was gliding like a seraphim. There's a reason little girls beg their parents for ponies. They want to fly.

Hollie's first riding book just came out. I'm so happy for her, and lucky to be learning to ride as an adult with such a patient and easy-going instructor. The book comes with a DVD too (It's the first English riding book to come with a video section for each chapter, explaining exactly how the words look from the saddle). The whole thing was filmed and written in the stables I am learning in, Riding Right Farm in South Cambridge, NY. I have a copy to give away here on the blog, which I will in this post. I just want to hear your thoughts on this:

How do you think horses will fit into our future? Do you think they will become more prominent as oil prices soar and peak and return again as our main source of travel and farm labor? Or do you think they will remain a hobby and sport? Do you live in an area where horses are in nearly every backyard as I do (1/2 acre trailer home lots have pony sheds around here) or do they seem to be the play things of the super rich in your neighborhood? Comment with your thoughts on horses in our homegrown future and you'll be entered to win a copy of Hollie McNeils's 40 Fundamentals of English Riding! Winner will be picked Thursday afternoon, check back to see if it's you!